The Huntsman and the Wood Elf
by theheartofadetective
Summary: Sherlock is directed by the Ice Queen to a wood elf that has been stealing medical supplies, but when he finds her, his mind begins to unravel and he begins to remember. He realises that he's found her; the one he never thought he would see again. Could it really be?
1. Chapter 1

_Sherlock kept his back flat against the trunk of the tree, making sure to keep himself hidden out of sight. He listened, his senses alert as he waited to hear the rustling of the earth beneath him. _

_He knew his target was on the other side of one of the tree trunks, feet silently still against the ground. His thumb and forefinger delicately rested on the shaft of the arrow within the pouch, the bow tightly wound within the other hand. _

_He did not know why he was after whoever it happened to be, he could not remember. He only knew that he was under orders to stop the thief. The only problem was that it felt wrong; his mind was telling him to turn back, not to hurt whoever it was. He relayed on this for only a minute, letting his guard down._

_This was when the target made an escape, when _she _made an escape. Sherlock leaned around the trunk of the tree, finally laying eyes on the target. He caught sight of her for only a few seconds. _

_She was a wood elf, but she had a bag strapped to her back. It was not hers, though; the man-made satchel looked wrong around her. Oh yes, that was why he was chasing her. This was the girl stealing medical supplies. _

_His fingers curled on the rough texture of the bark, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of her face. It was but a blur; he could not see her true features, he could not catalogue it to his memory; it was as If he did not want to and had not a clue why. _

_His feet felt cemented to the ground, an aching within his chest as he could not convince himself to pull an arrow from the pouch. He watched as the girl made eye contact with him for only a second before jolting off through the trees, disappearing deep within the forest before Sherlock could break himself out of his mind spell._

_He closed his eyes, gaining full composure before he turned to see the elf standing in front of him, looking at him curiously. All that he could see, though, was her big brown eyes. When he made an attempt to look at her whole face, everything became a blur again, his body reacting, protecting him from seeing as the images began to fade into darkness. _

_It was if black ink was dripping from the sky, oozing downwards so that he lost all sense of his surroundings. Trees lost their texture before disappearing; leaves blending until the colours created an ebony before him. Any sense of distance, of woods, collapsing until the silhouette of the elf girl remained in front of him as she let out a piercing scream for help, throttling him from the dream realm._

Sherlock's body jerked as he awoke, letting out a hard breath as his eyes opened wide. He flexed his fingers, trying to keep himself calm as he swallowed hard. He could still feel the roughness of the bark against his calloused fingers, the edge fading away as it was replaced by the black sludge clearing his memory slate.

He should be used to this by now.

Ever since the incident, long ago, the dream realm had never treated him the same. It was as if it had welcomed him before, in the times that he was happy. But after he commanded it to be silent, it let the aura of darkness seep into him during his unconscious state and allow anything to happen. It was part of his punishment.

When he sat up, his body reflexively leaned down, his hand on the bow protectively beneath the cot as soon as he sensed a presence within the house. He relaxed immediately, though, upon realising who it was. There was only one person that it could be, especially by the intensity of her presence.

Sherlock took his time, knowing who was outside his bedroom door, not in any rush to speak with _her_.

He would normally think it was John, but John treaded harder, especially with his armor. He was knight-commander of King Gregory's forces; the most trusted among all of the men, sworn to protect to the land and citizens from harm.

Sherlock's face remained expressionless as he opened the door to see his chair in the middle of the common room, the familiar figure taking up its space. Her dark dress flowed down to the floor, matching her dark hair that offset her pale complexion.

As he took a step into the room and out of the doorway, he looked to the table in the corner and he closed his eyes momentarily, exhaling deeply through his nose before opening them up again and looking to the woman. His eyes were pierced with anger, but they did not contain enough coolness to faze the Ice Queen.

_Aranthi; _a healing plant that smelled of honey_._ She knew that the delicate white flowers would remind him of his past love, and that is why she placed them there. She always liked to see him react. He usually did not let the emotion show through, especially with this situation imparticular, but with his dream still befuddling his mind, he had no patience to deal with her today. "What do you want?" he practically snarled.

"What a way to address your Queen," she laughed coldly, rubbing her forefinger and thumb together, a pile of ice crystals floating to the floor, melting upon impact with the wood.

"You are not a ruling Queen," he said, a snicker released from him, knowing it would set her off; she deserved it anyway.

"Because that pig does not know what he is doing!" she fumed, her eyes wide, rage covering her expression. Sherlock saw the hurt in her face though. He knew after these ten years away, she still missed her husband. The Ice Queen always wore black, in a constant state of mourning; wishing things would be sorted out, but too stubborn to settle the problem.

She cleared her throat for a second, her eyes moving to the floor to see the puddle collecting from the crystals that had fallen from her fingertips. She moved her fingers to glide across the arm of the chair. "Anyway," she said, much more composed after the temporary silence. "I have a job for you."

Sherlock turned away from her to look out the window. "As I last recalled, I don't take orders from you." He just wished that she would leave; his eyes kept flickering to the aranthi, overwhelming him and he wanted nothing more than to be alone.

"There is a wood elf," she started off, "who has stolen medical supplies. Twice now as I recall."

Sherlock's ears perked up at this, vivid images of his dream coming back to him. He had never had a vision before, one of truth, one of warning, but with so much time living, he believed that most things of that sort were possible. He waited for Irene to continue, but she was silent. "Is that all that you know?"

Irene smirked at this, a twinkle of ice in her eye. She knew how to intrigue the man, though she thought it would have taken more than that to get him interested. "Yes; she was too quick getting away."

"You can't catch the elves unless they want you to."

"So don't catch her," she said simply. "Kill her. Thieves will not go unpunished," she said, thinking herself dignified in her voice.

"And you wonder why the King does not see the way that you do," he said drily. Before she could reply, he continued. "She is a small female elf, brown hair, and a satchel was also taken."

Her eyes narrowed at this, her stare piercing into his back. "How…?"

Sherlock let out a sarcastic smirk on his face, but did not turn to her. "A guess," he shrugged.

"You don't guess."

"I know."

"Find her and kill her," she said as she stood. "I'm sure she will be back for more supplies; she's taken enough as it is." And with that, Irene exited his small abode.

Sherlock found amusement that she thought he would listen to her, let alone that he would _work_ for her. It was not his problem that she insisted on being the way she was.

Irene Adler had been a woman of dirty work, a high priestess of dark magic. Her higher powers of a colder water element were used to her advantage, especially against men. She picked up tasks of all kinds, keeping only to herself, trusting no one; she never worked for one person for long.

After King Gregory sent Sherlock to hunt her down, she was brought back to the fort alive. The second the king had set eyes on her, he knew she was different. She was only in the dungeons for a day before he could not resist going down there to speak to her; he had never been down to visit anyone in the dungeons, but there was something about her.

Within a few weeks, the priestess' heart was warmed by the king, and she promised to marry him. To use her magic to protect, to assist him in ruling the kingdom and to never let harm come to their people; and so she did.

But three years into their marriage, King Gregory noticed that Queen Irene was too harsh in the way she wished to punish others for their wrongful deeds. Gregory wanted a fair and just kingdom, and Irene's requests were not something he found agreeable.

When Gregory finally spoke to her about it, she retaliated, and a fight broke out. When Irene lost control for only a moment, she pinned him to the wall with a flash of ice, hurting the husband she loved so dearly. He had made her want to be better, to be rid of her old past, but she was defeated in that act. He tried to plea with her to stay, that it was only a mistake, but she left him pinned in ice and left the castle. It had been ten years that she had found solace in the woods away from him. And so, when she had opportunity, she took her anger and bitterness out on Sherlock, who had lost more than she had. She still had a chance to go back.

Sherlock was not going to follow the orders of the Ice Queen; he could barely follow orders from Gregory without getting himself in trouble. Though, just because a huntsman does not agree to the terms of royalty does not mean that he would not seek out the thief.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello! So this is my first time really going out of my comfort zone in this type of AU, and I hope you are all liking it so far. A few of the words are in elvish, but it shouldn't throw anyone off really. :) Happy reading!**

The small girl hovered over her older sister, pushing her hair away from her damp brow. Mary let out a groan as she rolled over to her side, her arm across her stomach, trying to push down the wave of nausea

Molly let out a sigh, pushing Mary's hair out of her face again. She then moved her hand down to Mary's free one, squeezing it before she stood up.

She then turned to find the main healer, Eldren, behind her. He gave a small smile to Molly, trying to look hopeful. "You can be at ease now," he said with kindness, wrinkling in the corners of his eyes from age; it only added to the wisdom she knew was within him. "Although the healing process is slow, your sister will fully recover; you know that, Molly."

She returned the smile to the man she respected so dearly, a tiny sigh escaping her lips. "I know, I just hate to see her suffer." At that moment, Molly looked back to Mary to see that she had fallen asleep. She only hoped that the dream realm would grant her healthy dreams, allowing her to escape her torment she had when awake; she deserved a few peaceful moments.

When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she turned back towards the man. "Why don't you get out of the camp for a while, take a break. Maybe you can take some time to retrieve more supplies?"

She nodded eagerly, looking ready to jump into action. She had retrieved supplies successfully twice now. "Though I do wish you would have permission getting such items. I only approve because your sister would not have made it, if it were not for your help."

Molly swallowed hard, wishing not to think of what could have happened to her sister. She felt a dark sense of foreboding, and it made her feel strong. Molly had always helped out with medicinal needs. It was her duty to tend and heal those in her camp, but her stomach lunged at the thought of losing someone. Her sister especially, but she couldn't help but feel as though there would be consequences if she were to fail anyone. She tried to push the thought out, wondering where it had come from, shaking her head slightly to clear her mind.

Before Molly could turn to leave, Eldren called back to her, his tone more serious now. "Molly," he began, "do be _careful_."

"I always am," she assured him with a small smile, but he shook his head.

"We are swift, Molly. I know you are capable of escaping, but you still need to be careful. There is a huntsman; he is a protector of the woods surrounding the human's land. He will not hurt you, so long as you do not give him reason to. Sometimes he has their King's commander with him," but then, he let out another breath. "Though, you _do_ need to be weary of the Ice Queen."

She nodded immediately, knowing the stories of the Ice Queen and the way had she become just ten years ago. Regardless of knowing, she listened to his words carefully. "You know she watches over the woods. As that is free land and that elves are allowed to roam, you will be safe. But once you take those supplies belonging to the humans, you know the consequences that could be in store." He hesitated for a moment, before giving her a confident smile. "A'laena sar, child."

* * *

As soon as Sherlock knew that Irene was clear of his house, he looked over to see another aranthi, rested upon the arm of the chair, encased in ice.

When he walked over to pick it up, he realised that she had traced Molly's name, a frozen scorch in the arm of the chair, bound to leave a mark as a reminder.

He would have to get rid of the chair now.

He was sick of this curse, sick of being stuck while everything moved on. How could he possibly continue like this? Forever. Without _her_. It drove him mad; all the time he used to think about it, and when flashes of memory resurfaced, they were always painful.

Sherlock's teeth ground together, furious that Irene did this to him; that she purposefully made him remember. For someone like her to know so much pain and to wish it upon others; he tasted bile in his throat.

The ice around the aranthi melted in his hand, leaving the flower damp and limp, the petals clinging to his skin. He stared with disdain at the plant before him, wanting to crush it within his palm, but he could not do it. It was the simplest reminder of her, and as much as he did not want to remember any of it, he slipped it into his pocket and went into his bedroom to retrieve his bow and arrow.

The work is what matters now, only the work. He knew he should just focus on the thief ahead of him and report to King Gregory.

After dressing properly to go out, he went to leave his room when he heard a loud thump, armour clamouring to the floor, along with a few choice words from the man suited in it.

"Sherlock? Why is there a pool of ice on the ground?" he asked as Sherlock came out his bedroom and saw him getting off of the floor.

"Irene," he said quickly, walking past John toward the door. He did not want to talk; he just wanted to leave, to be left alone.

John was a bit more concerned, worried even though his companion seemed casual about it. Something was not right though, Sherlock was angry. "Why was she here? The king should know."

Sherlock said nothing in reply, letting out a huff and waving his hand in dismissal as he made his way across the room.

John looked down at the arm chair to see the name carved, and he let out a sigh, knowing now why Sherlock was upset. He knew it would be useless to say anything else, so John watched him walk outside, slamming the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly sat high upon a branch, a bird perched upon her shoulder. She giggled as it whispered a joke to her, her fingers lightly brushing along the material of the satchel across her waist.

She had retrieved the supplies she was asked to get, and after Eldren told her to take her time, she decided she would take the advice. She had been quick in getting them, and rested far enough away where she thought humans would not linger.

She breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of the bark, the leaves, and the branches on the ground beneath her. She loved the quiet, only the sound of animals as they went about their day. Though, she did have the nightingale still upon her shoulder, a small tune being sung.

Her hand came up from the satchel as she began to trace the outline of her ears. After all these years among the world, she was still intrigued by the point of her ears. It was the only real physical distinction from humans. She had lived with it all of her life, and she did not dislike something that had been so apart of her, but somehow it felt like she was meant to have rounded ears. It always made her feel different, knowing everyone else thought nothing of it, and thought the humans were the strange ones for having round-tipped ears.

Though, as she lingered on the thought, she heard a distant crackle on the ground. Her finger came up and pressed to the beak of the nightingale; as delicate as a dull pointed needle, only asking for the creature's silence.

The bird flew silently onto the branch and off of her shoulder as she dropped herself from the branch. Those of her kind were so light on their feet that even a press to the leaves and branches on the ground was without a sound. She clutched the satchel to her side tightly as she looked and listened with the utmost concentration.

Yards away, Sherlock was clutched behind the tree, and his dream began flooding back to him. It was the same, and somehow he felt it would end in that way. He knew that the thief was aware that he was there. He could call himself a fool for making noise, but she was a wood elf, and as hard as he tried, he could not make his sounds imperceptible to her.

When Molly saw the form peek out from behind the tree, she swiftly bounded off back towards the camp. She almost stopped out of shock, but with adrenaline running through her, and the need to get away, she pushed the thought from her mind and focused on running.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as he watched the small elf run away from him. He had only caught sight of her for a few seconds, but this time her face was not a blur as it had been in his dream. It almost seemed as if it was… he shook his head. It was impossible; it couldn't be. It was his mind trying to persuade him and his senses heightened from his earlier taunting from Irene.

He tried to push the thought away, trying not to let it get to him. He finally realised he was still holding his breath and let out a small exhale, his hand clutching tight to the arrow still, almost breaking the frail wood between his fingers.

Molly did not know how long she was running, but she did as long as she could to try and push the feeling away, only focusing on gaining back towards camp. She focused on the trees in front of her, the animals glancing as she sneaked by, her hand clutching so tightly to the satchel that her knuckles were sore.

But she realised that she was not far from camp and slowed herself until she came to a full stop. She took in a deep breath and felt a constriction within her chest. Her eyes filled with moisture, but her lids closed, pushing down the intensity; she had not the faintest idea why she was so exasperated. She had known the feeling was coming as soon as her eyes set on the face of the huntsman. Normally, she would have known on instinct that it was fear of being caught, but she was not afraid of this man. It was a sense of familiarity, but she knew she had never really seen this man in her entire life.

* * *

"Knight-Commander," the King addressed John.

"Yes, sire?" John turned to him, standing up straight as his command exited the room, leaving only the two of them.

"I do wish you would call me Gregory," the King pleaded. "Especially if I am about to ask a personal question; no one else will, except for Sherlock," Gregory rolled his eyes,

John's brow furrowed in confusion, hesitating as he wondered what type of personal question the king would ask him. "Only if you will call me John," he gave a light smile.

John always addressed the king with formality, but he always _felt_ as though they were good friends. It is not something he would admit to, in fear of insulting the king he was so loyal to, but King Gregory felt the same way. He would never have asked anyone besides him and Sherlock to address him so informally, even in private.

"John," he began, "I was just wondering… I know how close you and Sherlock are, but there has been something plaguing me that Sherlock refuses to speak of, ever since I found him."

Sherlock had let himself be overruled by a world of mind altering herbal elixirs, anything to change his state and let him forget. Being the kind fixer that the king would always be, he offered to help him. He gave Sherlock a position and helped him to stay away from these elixirs.

"What do you mean?" John struggled, trying to keep with the King's request.

"He has never told me who Molly is, I only get the feeling that he has lost her, and it is why he is this way. So… reserved, closed off."

John sighed, knowing Sherlock probably did not care either way if people knew or not; it did not change the fact that it happened anyway. Sherlock only wished to not speak of it. "Have you heard of Sherlock's mind palace?" John asked after a long moment of quiet.


	4. Chapter 4

"He has mentioned it briefly, but you are usually around when he says he needs to go into it, and so he feels no need to explain to me."

John and King Gregory both smirked at that, knowing Sherlock definitely _had_ respect for the King, but did not treat him as high and mighty on a pedestal as others did; he did admire him though, as much as he would not admit.

"His mind palace is a place where all of his thoughts are organized so he is better equipped when trying to find people you request, or figure out when something is wrong. It helps; it's like a file cabinet for clues," he explained.

The King nodded in understanding, waiting for John to continue.

"It isn't only for… cases, if you will," he chose the word. "It's for everything else too. Sherlock has taken almost every memory of Molly and put it behind a locked door in his mind palace. It is the only thing that keeps him from going mad. Or I assume that's why."

King Gregory looked at him more seriously now. "So he has lost her then?"

He nodded grimly. "It has taken me years to figure all of this out; like I've said, Sherlock is not usually willing to talk about it. But, in a way, he has lost her; rather, she was taken from him, and he has been cursed."

A concerned expression clouded the King's face, his brows furrowing as he wondered why he had never found out any of this, knowing now how dire a matter it is.

"Do you remember the last dark priestess?"

"She has not been seen for over a hundred years," the King pointed out.

"I know," John said, letting out another sigh. "The last thing that she did was curse him, and kill Molly. The reason that Sherlock is so reckless is because he can't die."

"What?" King Gregory seemed to get impatient for only a second, not understanding.

"You know the village to the east, not far from here?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"That is where Sherlock and Molly lived. Molly acted as a natural healer for the village. One day, there was a young boy who she was trying to help, but out of her control, he ended up dying. He was the son of that dark priestess."

The King could hear the sympathy in John's voice as he continued, looking down at his hands now. "It was the priestess' fault; she tried to use dark magic and interfered with Molly's healing, killing her son. Sherlock had been off into the woods, trying to find the herbs at Molly's request, so the priestess blamed the both of them for the death of her son. In a rage, she killed Molly, and then set her curse upon Sherlock."

John stopped for only a moment, allowing the King to catch up. Gregory took a deep breath, nodding his head for John to continue. "The priestess told Sherlock that he would be destined to live forever. To see those he cared for come and go, and be stuck with his inability to escape to the other world. Molly was destined to reincarnate, but unless he could find her, and unless the curse was broken could they live on."

It was only a few seconds before Gregory stood up. "Why would we not seek Molly out then? Sherlock must know where she would be? He's good at figuring these things out."

John shook his head though, a sad look on his face. It was the most personal thing Sherlock had ever shared with him, and he felt the deepest sympathy for him when he understood why Sherlock is the way that he is. "I asked him that when I finally found this out, but Sherlock has given up.

"He says that they can be reincarnated into anyone. Sometimes they may not look exactly as they were; he doesn't know _where_ she would be either. He says it's not logically possible to find her, and he's too afraid to give that a chance. It's been one hundred years and he believes he will not find her."

The King deflated at this, falling back into his seat. He always found Sherlock to be a calculating, pompous arse, but he could not help but feel empathy for the man that had still been loyal to him.

"Irene has been to visit him lately; I don't know what it was about, I tried asking, but I know she taunted him about Molly."

Gregory gave a sad smile at this, looking to the ground as he thought of his wife he had not seen in so long. He only wished to have her back at the fort. He knew if he gave her another chance, she would not fail.

* * *

Molly paced back and forth, her arms crossed against her chest. She did not understand why this was such a big deal. He was just a huntsman, a human; someone that was going after her. So why could she not get the image of him out of her mind? Why did her heart pump twice as fast when she remembered him? None of it made any sense. It was going to make her insane.

It had been two days since she returned with the medical supplies. She had focused her mind on helping those that were ill, but whenever she had a second to think, his face popped into her mind; it was like it was burned into her eyes, the image of him.

Molly knew that she would not forget how he looked now, and she was aware that it would help her to know who would be looking for her if she needed to return for medical supplies. The problem was that it was not a fear of getting caught by him; that had nothing to do with why she kept thinking of him. She was going to have to return and see if he was there. She knew it was dangerous, and she didn't know why she felt so inclined to be near him again, but something told her that she _had _to.


End file.
